


ain't that a kick in the head?

by itisjosh



Series: MCYT: New Vegas [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Murder, Blood and Violence, Caesar's Legion, Canon-Typical Violence, Caravanner!Tubbo, Courier!Wilbur, Crossover, Exploration, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Follower!Niki, Follower!Tubbo, Followers of the Apocalypse (Fallout), Gen, Goddamn rich people, King!Eret, Mercenary!Tommy, Murder, NCR | New California Republic, NCR!Fundy, NCR!Phil, NCR!Techno, NCR!Wilbur, New Vegas, Temporary Amnesia, dream/sap/george are all fucking gamblers, follows the canon story, phil honestly might be the mysterious stranger, thank u ali for listening to me scream about this <3, you don't need to know much about f:nv to understand, you know how it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh
Summary: Wilbur stares at himself in the mirror, lifting up his hair. The scar from the bullet is still there. Of course it is, he doesn't know what he expected....He doesn't have much of a goal in mind other than to find the man who tried to kill him, but he can take some pit stops along the way, right?(or, mcyt/fallout nv crossover)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: MCYT: New Vegas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024122
Comments: 20
Kudos: 75





	1. orange coloured skies

Wilbur stares at himself in the mirror, lifting up his hair. The scar from the bullet is still there. Of course it is, he doesn't know what he expected. He turns to look back at the doctor, wincing when he turns. He knows that he should slow down, that he should take a day to rest, but he _can't_. Wilbur isn't entirely sure why, but he knows that he has important things to do. He doesn't entirely remember who he is or what happened in his past, but that's a problem for future Wilbur. "Do you think I'm good to go, Doc?" He asks, tilting his head to the side. He looks down at the counter in front of him, picking up the beanie he spots. "And, uh..can I take this?" The doctor - what was his name? Mitchell? - smiles at him, nodding. 

"Of course, Will. You can always come back here, a'right? You're always gonna be welcomed in Goodsprings, so long as you don't go around and fuck with the people," Mitchell laughs, as if it was a joke. Wilbur laughs too, though he's fairly certain he wasn't supposed to. "Be careful out there, a'right? Oh," Mitchell turns away from him, reaching out for something on one of his counters. "Here," Wilbur holds out his hands, nearly dropping the object placed in them. "This used to be my wife's. She don't need it no more," he chuckles, fondness seeping into his voice. "I think it'll still work well enough. You can always go to Chet if it doesn't." 

"Thank you," Wilbur smiles, staring down at the Pip-Boy. "I'm sorry about, uh..about your wife." 

Mitchell shrugs, giving him a blinding smile. "It's perfectly fine. It was just her time to go. If you ever need anything, my door's always opened. Be safe, Will."

"I will. Thank you." He dips his head, making his escape to the door. Mitchell is nice, but Wilbur has a feeling that there's something more to his words. He doesn't exactly have any good reason to trust him. The doctor might have saved his life, but that's debt owed. Wilbur's in debt to him, and he _hates_ being in debt. He slides the Pip-Boy on, tightening it against his wrist. It fits surprisingly well. Wilbur remembers that he always used to want one of these things, but now that it's on, he isn't quite sure. It's perfectly fine, but he's got a feeling that it's going to start to get in the way. Whatever, he can always take it off. Wilbur frowns as he walks, looking around the town. He's pretty sure it's called Goodsprings, and he's pretty sure that he's been here before. 

"Howdy, pardner!" Wilbur feels his heart leap into his throat at the sudden voice behind him, whirling around with his hand on his hip. _Fuck_ , where the hell is his gun? _Right, it's in his goddamn backpack_. "Oops, sorry 'bout that! Didn't mean to startle ya!" Wilbur clutches at his side, his fingernails digging into his hip. A robot stands, hovers, in front of him, a stupid, comedic smiley face on its screen. "My name's Victor, pardner! What's yours?"

Wilbur shifts, breathing out. What the fuck is with things startling him today? "I'm Wilbur," he murmurs, slowly digging his nails out of his flesh. "I really need to get going, I'm sorry." 

"It's fine, just let me speak to ya for a minute?" Victor leans forwards, his face never changing. "I dragged you outta that grave you got so rudely thrown into," Wilbur swears that the robot is fucking laughing at him. What even is it? A securitron? "You know, I got a decent look at the folk who shot you." 

"Do you know which way they went?" Wilbur asks, leaning closer to the securitron. "I'm not very happy about getting shot." Victor laughs this time, Wilbur can hear it clearly. When the hell did robots learn to laugh? Whatever, unimportant. 

"They headed towards Primm, actually. It's fairly close to 'round here! Yer Pip-Boy should show it, actually. But my bets were that they were headin' straight to New Vegas, they looked like fancy gentlemen."

Gentlemen, Wilbur thinks, is an interesting choice of words for people who shot a man in the head and buried him alive. "Alright. Thank you, Victor." Wilbur turns around without saying anything else, tuning Victor's humming out. He looks down at his Pip-Boy, moving the dials. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he watches the screen flash and turn, showing him an entire map of the area. How the hell does it.. _Christ_. Thank god Mitchell decided to give him it. Wilbur starts to move, looking at the middle of the map. He's been to New Vegas before, he thinks. Fuck, he wishes that he could remember more.

Wilbur pauses, closing his eyes. He needs to focus on what he remembers, what he knows for sure. That's important. 

He remembers being enlisted in the NCR. He was a sniper, he was part of First Recon. His full name is Wilbur Soot, and he took on a courier job for some extra caps. Did he quit the NCR? He isn't sure. Wilbur knows that he probably had NCR friends. He doesn't remember anyone who stands out to him, so he assumes that they probably weren't all that important. He was raised somewhere outside of New Vegas, and he clearly wasn't raised here, since no one recognised him. Was he a military brat? If he sees any NCR members, he'll have to ask. 

Wilbur knows that he was fighting against the Legion. Of fucking course he was, the Legion is the worst possible group on the entire world. They torture, maim, enslave, and kill anyone who disagrees with their sick practices. Even if he wasn't born into the NCR, Wilbur is fairly certain that his disgust for the Legion probably led him there. He sighs, tapping his map twice. He watches as a marker pops up, watches as the nearest trail to him lights up, showing him the way to get there. Wilbur laughs, reaching up to ruffle his hair. Fuck, this would've been useful on his courier job. Was he even close to getting it to the person he needed to? Did he need to get it to Primm, or did he have to go to New Vegas? He wishes that he knew, that'd make all of this so much fucking easier. 

He starts to walk, slinging his back over his shoulder. He pulls out a 9mm, shoving it in the holster on his hip. He grins at the sniper rifle in his bag, strapping that across his chest. He makes sure that the safety for both guns are on before he moves any more, not wanting to accidentally shoot himself in the ass or something. Wilbur's already been shot more than he'd like, and he doesn't remember liking it all that much when it happened. He smiles down at the stimpacks he sees, pleased with the amount that he has. He counts ten, which should be enough to get him to New Vegas, if he plays it safe. 

There's a few bottles of water, a couple cases of Blamco and Pork 'n Beans. Wilbur sighs, clicking his tongue as he rustles through the rest of his pockets. He's never liked Blamco, it always just tastes like cardboard and regret. He swings his bag back over his shoulder after he grabs one of the water bottles, flipping off the cap. Water bottle caps aren't useful, it's only the Nuka-Cola caps that he can use a currency. He knows that he has at least a thousand in his bag, but he wouldn't be surprised if Mitchell took them as a payment for stitching him up. He can figure out how to get more once he finds the fucker that shot him.

Wilbur takes a swig of his drink, sighing at the coolness. He looks down at himself, scowling at the shit he's wearing. He misses his NCR gear. All he's in is some shitty courier duster, and he's got _no_ armour. If he gets shot at, he's going to die. Wilbur sighs again, tightening the cap on his bottle before he shoves it back into his backpack's side pocket. At least the duster is light. Wilbur remembers that the NCR's armour was always heavy and hot, and living in the Mojave is arguably the worst place for heavy and hot armour. Even the leather armour he remembers wearing fucking sucked, and that's the lightest thing that can still protect you. He trudges through the desert, dragging his feet along the ground. There's no way he'll make the trip to New Vegas in one night, and sleeping in the middle of the Mojave wasteland is just _asking_ to be robbed and shot. 

He glances up at the sun, using his hand to shield it from his eyes. Well, it isn't even midday yet. Wilbur looks down at his Pip-Boy, reading the time. 9 _:02 AM._ He's got a decent amount of time, and if he's lucky, he can probably reach Novac by the end of the day. Even though it's where he wants to go, he's _not_ going through Quarry Junction. There's no fucking way, not right now. He barely has anything on him, and the Deathclaws there are absolutely _rampant._ The entire place is fucking infested, and Wilbur isn't going to get himself torn to shreds just because he wouldn't take the long way around.

To be fair, he thinks, there _are_ a lot of very tall rocks. Wilbur knows that he's good at climbing, and if he gets cornered, he can always scale a mountain. It isn't the hardest thing to do, and it'll be a lot easier since he's got nothing on him. He could do it. Going to Primm and looping around would be the safest way to get to New Vegas, but that takes _time_. It takes a fucking long time, and he isn't going to waste time, not with this situation. The bastard who shot him could already be in tribe territory right now, and there's no way that Wilbur is going to let him get away. Wilbur stares down at his Pip-Boy, clicking his tongue as he thinks. Fuck. Quarry Junction is the dumbest choice he could make, but it would be the fastest route. Going through Primm is going to take a long time, but it would be safe. 

Going to Novac arguably takes more time, but it would still be worth it. Plus, it's fairly close to Forlorn Hope, and Wilbur could always go see if anyone there knows him. It would work. He pauses, scrolling through his map. The Mojave Outpost is actually really, really close to him. Wilbur could go there. It's NCR territory, and he doesn't remember there being Deathclaws surrounding it. Wilbur sighs, putting his wrist down. He turns on his heels, disappointed that he didn't think of this sooner. He's already wasted thirty minutes, if not more, of his life, and now he's going to waste even more time. He'll have to come back this way, and that's just.. _fuck_. 

Wilbur starts to walk, switching his Pip-Boy to the radio. He smiles when he hears the song, _Lone Star_. He's always liked the music that the Mojave has to offer, although he's never heard anything else. Wilbur thinks that he'd like to go to Boston, or D.C. He's heard a lot about both the Capital Wasteland and the Commonwealth, and he's always liked to travel and explore. Maybe after he beats the shit out of the guy who shot him he'll go and visit. Maybe. Wilbur keeps walking, wishing that the sand wouldn't get in his boots. He has an appreciation for sand, it isn't the worst. It sucks to travel through, and it's even worse because of sandstorms, but he still has a respect for it. At least it's easy to get out of his shoes. 

Wilbur stares at the Outpost's sillhouete, smiling faintly to himself. He doesn't remember the last time he came here, but he's fairly certain that he's been here once or twice before. Maybe someone will actually fucking remember him, that'd be nice. If he could find someone who knew more about him and if he was still NCR or not, that would be nice. Wilbur thinks that he isn't part of the NCR anymore, but he still supports their ideals. Sort of. They've always been uptight about everything, and they've got rules that Wilbur doesn't agree with. They're shit at helping poor people, and they're even worse at lying about it. At least when he was in the NCR, Wilbur could share whatever he had with some of the less fortunate people around him. He knows that New Vegas really is a trap, and a lot of people lose their entire life's savings just from one trip. Wilbur's glad that he never got caught in that trap. Unless he did, and he doesn't remember. He'd like to think that he didn't.

He sighs at the sight of the steep mountain ahead of him, littered with cars and trucks. It would be nice of the NCR to clear that shit out, but Wilbur's well aware that they never will. The NCR fights for the right thing, Wilbur knows that. They're the only thing keeping the Legion out of the Dam, but they're shit at almost everything else. They never really cared about the people they're fighting for, and he knows it isn't the fault of the soldiers. Their leaders are corrupt, just like every other person in power. Wilbur's glad that he never got swayed over to the idea that he was better than the farmers or caravanners who barely had enough caps to breathe. Everyone has a purpose, and without those farmers, Wilbur wouldn't eat. Without those caravanners, the NCR wouldn't have a consistent, steady amount of supplies streaming into their pockets. 

Wilbur cracks his knuckles as he walks up the mountain, passing cars and boxes as he goes. He stares at the statues, smiling a little to himself. If nothing else, he can at least recall basic history. The monument is dedicated to the official merging of the Desert Rangers and the NCR Rangers, back in 2271. Wilbur isn't sure if them merging was a good idea now, but back then, it was important. Back then, it actually meant something. Now, he thinks, it's just shade to stand under. He isn't going to complain, he can never get enough of that. Wilbur sighs as he reaches the top of the mountain, leaning against the leg of the Desert Ranger. He closes his eyes, grabbing his water bottle again. Maybe walking up an entire fucking mountain wasn't the best idea. He did just get shot in the head, after all. Whatever.

Wilbur breathes out, his chest and stomach hurting less now. He looks up, smiling and waving at some of the caravanners who wave first. He glances at the Outpost's pub, raising an eyebrow. Everyone he sees here are just caravanners, not soldiers. Wilbur straightens his back, wincing when it pops. God, he hasn't moved this much in a long time. How long was he buried alive? Jesus. He moves to the pub's door, pushing it open. Wilbur sits at one of the empty stools, nodding at the man next to him. The man looks a bit older than him, probably in his early thirties, late twenties. "Hey," the man smiles at him, offering him a hand. "You look familiar." Wilbur suppresses the grin he wants to show, settling for an easy smile instead. 

"Yeah?" He asks, tilting his head to the side. His hair falls over his face, and he hopes to god that it hides the scar. "I'm Wilbur Soot. I've sort of forgotten a couple of things," he offers, sighing. He's got a weird feeling that he can trust this man, and even if he can't, he's got plenty of backup here. He knows damn well that the NCR won't tolerate a shootout, not in the pub at least. He reaches up, pushing his hair out of his face. "I got shot."

"Ah," the man laughs, ducking his head. "You got shot in the head and you lived to tell the tale?" He grins, raising an eyebrow. "Damn. That's impressive. I'm Phil, First Recon." Wilbur shakes his hand when he offers it, fumbling to throw his backpack over his shoulder. 

"I'm First Recon, too," he beams, pulling out his red beret. "Or I used to be. You kind of look familiar, Phil." 

Phil stares at him for a second, his face tight and serious now. "I definitely know you," the serious look is replaced with a wide grin a second later, his eyes shining with happiness. "Will! I recognise you, I _definitely_ do," he laughs, clapping his hand against the table. "I was your sargent! I still technically am, even if you're ex-NCR now," Phil booms, his laugh nearly infectious. "God, it's so good to see you again! I thought you'd never show back up after that courier job. Wait," Phil pauses, staring at him. "Is that what got you shot?" Wilbur breathes out, feeling relief course through his veins. Thank _god_ he knows someone. Thank god someone knows _him_. 

"Yeah," he laughs, ruffling his hair back. "I'm looking for the man who shot me. I've been told he went up to New Vegas," Wilbur taps his Pip-Boy, a grin smile replacing his grin. "I've got nothing, though. Maybe a thousand caps total, and that's not going to be enough to get myself some good armour." Phil nods, raising his hand. Wilbur watches as the bartender slides two cups towards him, and Phil pushes on to him.

"Water," Phil reports. "Listen, Will. You were barely even sixteen when you decided to join the NCR, and I've known you for a decent amount of time. We never really got close, but you're still..you were still a friend. How about I help you find the fucker that shot you?" Phil raises an eyebrow, grinning. "I wouldn't mind. I've been sitting on my ass doing fuck-all for the past month and a half, and there's nothing better for me to do. Plus," Phil grins a little more, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "You really _do_ have fuck-all, and if you try to go to New Vegas, you'll fuckin' die, Wilbur. Might as well come with you, to make sure you don't get yourself killed."

Wilbur feels his heart soar, excitement pumping in his blood. "You're serious? You'll come with me? Don't you have, like, an obligation to stay here?" Phil leans a little closer to him, clinking their cups together. 

"The NCR's got some pretty shitty morals, and I think that's the reason you dropped out of it. I think it's about time I do the same," he admits. "It's been nice, but I can fight the Legion without having to abide by their stupid ass laws. Plus, I'll always be respected, _and_ welcomed back. I'm the best fuckin' sniper they have," Phil snorts, pushing himself off of his stool. "We're wasting daylight, so.." he gestures to the door, setting the mug down. "Wanna get moving, Will?" 

Wilbur grins, standing up. He sets his mug down as well, watching as Phil puts a small bag of caps next to them. "That sounds like a good idea, Phil. Let's get the fuck out of here."


	2. heartaches by the number

Wilbur props his legs up against the desk in Nipton, closing his eyes as he leans back. He hears Phil shuffling around in the next room over, cursing softly under his breath. Unfortunately for Nipton, it ended up being struck by the Legion. Wilbur isn't sure if he could have killed the entire group on his own, and silently thanks Phil for being there with him. Wilbur glances at the fox hat on the desk, narrowing his eyes at it. It's practically drenched in blood, courtesy of Phil shooting its owner in the head. "You done yet?" Wilbur asks, craning his neck ever so slightly. "We can report this place to the Outpost later."

Phil laughs, a warm, echoing sound that makes Wilbur smile. "You just don't want to walk up the hill again," Phil snorts. Wilbur rolls his eyes, swinging his legs off of the desk. He pushes himself off of his chair, adjusting his 9mm so it doesn't fall out of his holster. "I'm right and you know it, Will. It's cardio! It's good for you." Wilbur rolls his eyes again, leaning against the doorframe of the room that Phil's in. 

"I died barely an hour ago," he reminds the older man. "Me walking up a mountain _twice_ isn't good for my health," Wilbur crosses his arms, watching as Phil rustles through a locker. "Find anything good in there, Phil?"

"Nah," Phil turns to smile at him, slamming the locker door shut. "Just some dust and some old clothes. Nothing of use," he stands, brushing past Wilbur. "It's a really weird moral dilemma, you know?" He sighs. "Since the people that the Legion killed were Powder Gangers, and if they hadn't killed them, they would've fucked with other people. Good people. But no one deserves to be nailed to a cross." Wilbur nods, making a noise from the back of his throat. He agrees entirely. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, glancing out of the window. The glass is smashed in, and he's careful to not walk over it. His boots would probably keep all of it out, but even if one stray shard of glass managed to get in, he could die of an infection. He doesn't know what the hell Nipton has to offer other than dead bodies, but he knows that Powder Gangers do a _lot_ of chems. He isn't going to accidentally get himself addicted to MedX, or whatever. "Should we put the fox hat on a cross?" Wilbur asks, laughing as he picks it up by the ear. "As, like, a sign?"

Phil grins at him, his eyes shining. "Sure, why not?" He shrugs, walking out of the building. Wilbur follows him, wincing when the stench of burning rubber hits him. The Legion burnt an entire pile of tires and decided to barbeque half of the population. It's disgusting what happened to those people, but Wilbur doesn't feel all that bad. Powder Gangers are bad people, they're not nearly as bad as the Legion, but they're still bad people. They kill innocent people because they can, and Wilbur doesn't condone that type of shit. People _choose_ to become Powder Gangers. People _choose_ that, it's by _choice_. Wilbur doesn't feel that bad for what happened the more he thinks of it. "I think we should cut through Quarry Junction," Phil clears his throat, his arms crossed as he stares out at the remains of Nipton. "It's the fastest option."

"And it's filled with Deathclaws," Wilbur reminds him, staring at the fire. He watches as the smoke twirls and rises from the pile of tires, twisting in a sick tornado figure. "I don't think going through the Quarry is the best idea," he frowns at the thought, wishing that there was another way to get to New Vegas as quickly as going through the Quarry. "I don't want to go and loop around Primm, and Novac is further than Primm is.."

"Why would we go to Novac?" Phil raises an eyebrow at him, tilting his head to the side. "Our options here are either Primm or the Quarry. Novac takes more time, and it'll take even longer to actually get to New Vegas. It'd be a waste of time."

Wilbur holds a finger up to his mouth, tapping his lips. "Shh," he laughs, leaning back on his heels. "Forlorn Hope is there, Phil. I was thinking of going there to see if anyone knew me. But then I found you," he shrugs. "I didn't even plan on going up to the Mojave Outpost, but I did. So, if I knew someone else from the NCR, that'd be a third person. I'm very confident in us, but if there's a third person, we could always feed them to a Deathclaw as a distraction." Phil laughs again, ducking his head.

"That's fucked, Wilbur. Well," Phil taps his foot against the ground. "I'm thinking that if they went to New Vegas, they're probably rich assholes. There's no way that they know you're actually alive, and I doubt they're going to come all the way back to Goodsprings to check your grave," he pauses. "They don't know you're alive. They're in Vegas, they're going to celebrate. They've got no reason to lay low. You're ex-NCR, the only people who got close to you would've been your First Recon buddies. When you took that courier job, not a lot of people expected you to come back to the military. If you can make good money and not risk your life as much, why not do it?"

"Yeah," Wilbur nods, biting down on his lip as he thinks. Phil is right. "We could make quite a few pit stops then, that's what you're saying."

"It's what I'm implying," Phil nods. "We could go to Novac, get some supplies for you there, and we could make our way up to Forlorn Hope from there. It could work. I doubt that your hitmen are going to go anywhere anytime soon. Why leave when you shot someone in the head, and he very clearly was dead?" Wilbur laughs, nodding. 

"I don't think I was dead. Just..not awake. They kind of fucked with my head," he sighs. "Do you have anywhere that you want to go before we start walking again?"

Phil turns to smile at him. "There's a place I'd like to show you, actually. I think I've got some spare gear there. It's called the Think Tank," he sighs, grabbing Wilbur by the arm. Wilbur follows Phil, trudging off next to him. "It's in a place called the Big Empty. There's a lot of shit there, and it's kind of my home. It's..it's really hard to explain, but I ended up nearly getting lobotomized, and it was just one big ordel," Phil laughs. "But we're all good now, and since I'm bringing you, they're not going to touch you."

"They?" 

"The robots there," Phil waves a hand. "They're smart in the scientific way, but they're completely fuckin' stupid in all the other ways. Plus, we've got an agreement that I can go there whenever I want, and that includes bringing people with me," Wilbur nods, trying to think back to before he got shot. He doesn't remember hearing anything about the Big Empty, or the Think Tank. "It's not in the Mojave," Phil adds. "It's kind of outside of it, I think? I'm not sure. Think like, teleportation." Wilbur blinks, clicking his tongue. 

"Teleportation," he repeats the word, glancing down at the sand as he walks. "I feel like this really is just one big plot to steal my organs, Phil." 

Phil tilts his head back, barking out a sharp laugh as they walk. "Nah. If I wanted to steal your organs, Will, I'd have done it already. Organs don't even sell for that much, you know that. There aren't that many cannibals roaming around in the Mojave. I think they get shot more often than we'd think," Wilbur grins, stopping his walking when Phil does. "We're here," Phil smiles, clamping his hand on Wilbur's shoulder. "Just stick close to me, yeah? You might pass out."

"That's not very welcoming," he murmurs, shifting to stand directly next to Phil. Wilbur smiles down at him, mirth bubbling in his chest. "You're short."

"And you're an asshole," Phil crosses his arms after flipping him off. Wilbur laughs, tilting his head towards the ground to hide his grin. "I think I should just let them lobotomize you, Jesus Christ. You're lucky I'm nice, Will. If I hadn't known you before, I would've definitely shot you and stole your organs to sell," Wilbur giggles, watching as Phil steps forwards, pushing his hand against something. He takes a moment to look around him, staring at the cars and the projector. They're in an old, drive-in movie theatre, he realises. Wilbur thinks that it'd be cool to watch an old movie here, if the projector worked. He's always liked the idea. "Alright. We should be there in three, two, one-"

* * *

The Big Empty wasn't as empty as its name said.

Wilbur scuffs his feet along the ground, uncomfortably shifting in the armour Phil gave him. He's very thankful for it, he really is, but it's so..heavy. To be fair, he probably hasn't worn actual armour in a long time, since he took that job as a courier, but _still_. The Big Empty was full of robots and buildings that didn't make sense. Wilbur looked over Phil's notes when he had gone to bring him armour, and he couldn't understand any of it. The name "Mobius" was mentioned a concerning amount of times, but he didn't really pay that much attention. 

"I think we're getting close," Wilbur hums, tapping the map on his Pip-Boy. "It'll probably be another ten miles away from here until we reach Novac."

"That's pretty close for you?" Phil laughs, marching along casually in all of his armour. He doesn't even look like he's weighed down, and Wilbur wonders how the hell he does it. Wilbur sighs, fidgeting with one of the straps around his chest, frowning when it snaps back, hitting him harder than it really should. Phil grabs him by the wrist, and Wilbur immediately stiffens, his hand on his hip, already pulling out his gun. He stares at Phil, mouth half open when the man doesn't look concerned in the slightest. "Oh," Phil laughs, ducking his head. "I wanted to see how close we were."

Wilbur stares at him, rolling his eyes. He tilts his head back, staring up at the sky. "You scared the fucking shit out of me, Phil," he sighs, letting his hand be twisted around and moved. "You could just take it off, you know."

"It doesn't work unless it's on a person."

"You could take it off and put it on yourself," Wilbur offers, scowling when Phil turns off the radio. "But you're not going to, because you're _Phil_ , and you don't _do_ that," he raises his voice, mocking Phil as best as he can. He grumbles when Phil punches him in the shoulder, pretending like it doesn't actually hurt. Phil is definitely stronger than him, and Wilbur isn't sure how much he likes that. "So..ten miles?"

"Seven," Phil states, finally loosening his grip on his arm. "You're shit at estimation," Phil tells him. Wilbur scoffs, picking up his pace to catch up with the other. "Let's play a game while we walk. This is probably one of the safer paths, and you'll hear a Deathclaw from a fuckin' long ways away. What all do you remember? Might as well try to figure out who you are first, right?" 

Wilbur nods, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. "I was First Recon. I remember being sort of friends with someone there, but I don't remember his name. I kind of remember you the more that we travel together, but not enough to really mention," he shrugs. He remembers Phil teaching him how to actually hold a rifle, how to not have the butt of the gun so close to his fucking chest, because the kickback would kill him. Wilbur remembers being shorter than Phil at some point. He must have been young when he joined. How old is he now? Fuck, he's got no clue. Early twenties, probably. "Do you know how old I was when I joined the NCR?"

"Yeah," Phil waves a hand, twirling a knife in the other. "About fifteen, I'd say? You spent three years as a basic ranger, and then you got bumped up to First Recon when you took out an entire pack of Legionaries on your own," Phil smiles at him, pride shining in his eyes. Wilbur smiles back, ducking his head so Phil doesn't see how happy that look actually makes him. Wilbur doesn't know why the fuck Phil's approval means anything, but whatever. "When you were twenty is when you got put under my command specifically. We made a good team, but we didn't spend that much time off together. You left when you were twenty-one, and it's only been a couple months from there, so.." Phil shrugs. "I'd say that's about all of your history. I could be wrong, though. Maybe you were sixteen? Fuck if I know." Wilbur nods, processing the information. He feels older than twenty-one. Maybe he's twenty-two, or twenty-three.

"Okay. Thank you," he tries to not drag his feet along the sand, wishing that he knew more about himself. "I don't really remember where I lived. I didn't grow up by the Strip, and I know I didn't grow up by New Vegas or Goodsprings. Maybe Novac? But it's such a small town.." he sighs. "To be fair, almost all towns are small, aren't they?" Phil makes a noise of agreement from the back of his throat. "I think I might've been born to NCR parents. I don't remember them that much."

"As in," Phil clears his throat. "As in, you don't remember them because of trauma, or you don't remember them 'cause of the bullet?" 

Wilbur pauses, trying to think back to his childhood. "I don't think they were bad people. I don't think they were around that much. I grew up on my own, I think?" He frowns. "I'm not sure. I didn't have siblings, though, I know that. I'm pretty sure my parents are dead."

"Probably," Phil agrees, fucking around with the scope on his gun. "Mine are definitely dead. It's a surprise that anyone manages to even get old out in the Mojave."

"Old man," Wilbur teases, nudging Phil with his elbow. "You're so _old_."

Phil stares at him, failing to hide the grin on his face. He reaches up, slapping Wilbur on the back of the head. "You're not gonna live to be as old as I am if you keep that shit up," he threatens. Wilbur just laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. "That's what I thought." 

They keep walking, and Wilbur is happy to not be alone for the first time in a while. 


End file.
